


Third Time Under

by glacis



Category: due South
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:39:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victoria comes back, and Kowalski fights to keep Fraser from going under for the third and final time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Time Under

_Third Time Under_

Benton Fraser had taught himself, while still a boy, not to fantasize.  Dreaming was acceptable, sometimes even necessary, if lucid, guided, and interpreted correctly. But that other kind of dreaming, the sort that never came true in the form desired, that twisted in reality until it was a mocking, painful, dangerous perversion of a secret need, was to be avoided at all costs. For such dreams were the root of nightmares, in his experience. And they never, ever ended. Not even after heartbreak, betrayal, blood and denial.

He was not losing his mind.

He knew what the candles meant.

His past, what on a snowy mountain breathing the frosty breath of death had seemed a lovely dream, had invaded his present once again. He'd fallen back into the darkness, and this time … this time he would tell no one.  Let her bring him to the edge of the abyss and push him face forward into hell all on his own. He would not risk his friends again by inviting them into his nightmare.

He'd had another dream, almost two years ago. He'd dreamed of acceptance, and affection, and eventually, arousal. But those dreams had never been articulated, dying in the light of reality before they could be voiced.  For the object of his affections, silent as they were, was a Catholic, heterosexual police detective of strong Italian heritage who lived in the bosom of his family. Who had invited Benton into that warm circle. Warmth was such an unusual attribute in his life experience that he had been immobilized by it, even moreso than by the not unexpected affection he had unfortunately allowed to slip into love for his oblivious friend. So he had maintained his silence, as was his practice, and enjoyed that which he was freely offered, never asking for that which he could not be given.

Now that warmth was transmuted into a different sort of acceptance, as his point of entry into the circle was far away, under an assumed name, undertaking a double life for the purpose of doing his duty as a law enforcement officer. Benton understood duty much more readily than he understood warmth, and with the leaving, the insistence of his feelings subsided, as he faced reality with typical stoicism. Another had taken Ray Vecchio's name, but was an altogether different sort. He was bright, arcing light, quicksilver motion, grace and hesitancy and naked bravery unexpected. Ray Kowalski had armor a meter thick, and skin a millimeter thin, when one looked past the bravado and the tough talk and saw the heart at the back of his eyes. That heart was pure fire, and Benton responded once again, unwillingly, helplessly. Completely. His dreams took another shape, and for once, there was no barricade of reality. This Ray was single, impulsive, and oddly sexually ambiguous. Benton was drawn to him as a moth to a flame, much as he fought the attraction.

If the darkness found out about the light, then his nightmares would be the end of them both.

 

Detective Kowalski stared moodily at a hole coming through the left knee of his most comfortable pair of jeans and wondered what the hell he'd done now that had fucked everything up. He didn't make friends easily, god knew, but Fraser was unique. Fraser listened to him. Paid attention, and had smart things to tell him, things that helped. Fraser was weird, but in a good way.

Fraser liked him.

He'd thought. He was beginning to wonder.

The last week or so the usually totally calm Mountie had been acting spooked. He didn't exactly jump at shadows, but he came damned close. He didn't want to hang out, didn't want to grab a pizza and watch a game -- not even a hockey game. Something was radically wrong with the Mountie.

For half a second he considered actually asking Thatcher what was going down at the Consulate. Then he remembered the last time he'd seen her, pictured her perfectly made up eyes glaring at him like he was some kind of roach who'd wandered in off the streets by accident and she was going to squish him, and shuddered. Bad idea. Then he considered Turnbull, for almost two seconds, before he accepted that the other Mountie was such a flake Fraser could be standing sentry duty naked in nothing but the hat and Turnbull wouldn't notice anything unusual.

The resulting mental image hit him like a fist to the solar plexus. God, but wouldn't he pay to be the one to rub the sun block on. It took him a moment to refocus his eyes and get the breath back in his lungs. Okay.  One more ambush by a hot picture of Fraser. Not like this was all that unusual. In fact, lately, it had become the norm. He was getting used to the pattern -- think of Fraser, get a hard-on, blow air out through his nose and glare at whatever happened to be in front of him while thinking about icebergs, wait for the blood to return to his brain. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Fraser had picked up on his idiocy and was avoiding him so as not to lead him on.

Nah.

Not Fraser. Look up clueless in the dictionary, and there's that face.  That gorgeous face. With those big innocent who-me blue eyes and that thick hair that he could just see grabbing hold of as he fucked that perfect mouth.

His head hit the desktop with a loud, hollow thump. _Not_ the way to lose a woody.

"Ray?"

He held back a moan by sheer force of will.

"Ray? Are you all right?"

Oh, yeah, great, be even better if you'd shuck those tight black duck thigh pants you got on and spread 'em. Be totally perfect if you lubed up first.  Ray squeezed his eyes tightly shut and gritted out through clenched teeth, "Fine, Fraser, what's up?" Oh, god, bad. Very bad, Kowalski, he groaned, but he managed to keep it silent.

"Nothing that I know of," Fraser responded, on cue, yeah, totally clueless.  The usual weird mix of laughter and being turned on that hit Kowalski finally put a dent in his pole, and he was able to look up at his friend from his comfortable pillow of overflowing file folders. What he saw wilted him completely.

Fraser looked like shit. Well, as close to shit as somebody as gorgeous as he was _could_ look. Which meant his eyes were threaded with tiny swollen red veins, and he had smudges under his eyes, and he was holding his jaw so tight it looked like it was about to crack into a million pieces. What the fuck? "What the fu--er, what's wrong, Fraser? You look kinda rough."

Those usually innocent eyes slid immediately away. Oh, yeah, something wasn't right, all right. Then he noticed the strong hands were turning the Stetson around and around, long fingers kneading the brim. As he watched in total disbelief at the havoc Fraser was wreaking on his normally pristine hat, the hands suddenly stilled, and a tiny sound of horror came from above him. He looked up, and caught his breath at the pain in those bloodshot eyes.

"Siddown, Fraser." He reached up, grasped one red-sleeved forearm firmly, and tugged the Mountie into his usual seat. "Talk to me." Please. He didn't let go. He was half afraid if he did, the other man would bolt and he'd never find out what was going on. Need to jump in the guy's pants aside, Fraser was one of the few friends he actually had, and he couldn't stand to see him hurting.

Fraser didn't try to get away, simply sat, staring off into the middle distance, not saying anything. Ray tugged not too gently at the sleeve to get his attention, then froze in shock as Fraser rotated his hand, slipped his sleeve from Ray's grasp, and wound his fingers into Ray's. He tightened his grip automatically, not even caring what the other cops would think to see him sitting there holding hands with Big Red. Fuck 'em.  Fraser's hand was cold. And it was trembling. He could no more let go now that he could take his gun out and shoot himself.

"I …" Fraser stared down at their joined hands. Kowalski let him sit for a moment, then squeezed slightly.

"What is it, Fraser? C'mon. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad that you can't tell me."

Apparently those were the wrong words. Before Ray closed his mouth over them, Fraser tore their hands apart, stuffed his mangled Stetson on his head, drew himself to attention, and practically saluted. For the second time in less than a minute, Ray sat there and stared at him with his mouth hanging open.

"Can't. Sorry. G'bye." Three words, five syllables rammed into three, and Fraser turned on his heel and practically ran out the door, in an incredibly fast paced and barely controlled walk. Ray stared after him, hand still curling into the empty air, mouth still hanging open, erection still half hard, brain feeling like it had just gone through a whirl in a Mixmaster.

Oh, yeah. Something was radically wrong with the Mountie. Time to make like a detective and find out what the fuck was going on.

 

For the fourth night in a row, she slipped up the back stairs into the unused room at the back corner of the consulate. She had waited, watched, planned for weeks, and the time was perfect for execution. The woman who ran the place was off in Canada and would be for another two weeks, plenty of time. The other Mountie was a moron, easily fooled, off in his own world, and wasn't even aware of her existence.

But Ben was.

She'd seen to that. Dozens of candles, white, scentless, scattered about a vacant room.

Let him believe, for the barest heartbeat, that he was being haunted. Let him shiver, let him flinch. And when his mind believed what his eyes were telling him, then let him come to her. That bastard cop had gotten in their way once before, but he wouldn't this time. Now, here, it was her and it was Ben, and no one would ever come between them again.

She would see to that.

Pausing in front of the cheval glass at the foot of the wide bed, she stared at her reflection. Her long, dark curls framed a thin, elegant face, large dark eyes, generous mouth. The simple black skirt and sweater hugged her form, blending in with the rich cherrywood of the antique bed frame behind her, giving her hands and face the appearance of floating in the half-dark of the room. So different from the first time he had held her. All white, then, snow around them, on the ground, in the air, in her lungs, on his lashes. Just the rich mahogany of his hair and the clear water of his blue eyes, anchoring her in a world of white.

Dropping her into a living hell, without a backward glance.

She had played with him, yes, when they'd met again, leading him a merry chase, pushing him. Seeing how much he was willing to sacrifice, and how much he could take, and what he would leave behind. In the end, he hadn't failed her.

He'd been kept from her.

Not now.

She heard his footsteps on the stair, not hesitating, as they ascended and headed toward the door. It was only as she heard the slid of wood across the Persian rug, the tiny squeal of hinges, that they faltered. He had come to her, expecting her memory in the candlelight. Not her presence.

"Victoria."

He said her name in a way no one else had ever managed, anguish overlaid with calmness, defeat underlying hope. She smiled at herself in the mirror. No, she hadn't lost him. She never would. "Hello, Ben."

"You shouldn't be here." Standing so still, in the doorway, one hand on the knob, as if the door could somehow be a defense, a wall between them.  Head back, shoulders straight, feet firmly planted on the ground. But there was a fine trembling in his throat, and it undermined his determined voice.

"I have to be." The simple truth, really. She'd tried to run, she'd had the means, and the opportunity, but she'd been drawn back to him. Always would be, she knew that now. It was him, or no one; with him, or nowhere. She'd been without him, and she'd spent ten years in hell because of him; she'd tried to punish him and only ended up hurting herself. It was time to face the truth. They were intertwined in a way she could never hope to untangle. She turned to face him, and read his eyes. Fire, and steel, and denial. "You're here."

He stared at her for a long moment, then reached toward the telephone on the stand beside the bed. She watched a muscle twitch along his jaw as he forced himself to pick up the receiver, dial a number, one finger stabbing viciously at the buttons.

"I need you."

He refused to look at her, staring at the handset, putting it to his ear as a voice came through. He opened his mouth to speak, and finally broke, eyes darting up to meet hers. She dropped any pretense she ever might have had at indifference, and let the want show in her face. The voice at the end of the line grew louder, demanding an answer. His throat moved, as he swallowed, but still no sound came out. She reached out to him, one hand, barely leaning forward, and his eyes closed as she recreated the last moment he had seen her. Reaching to him. Calling to him.

He cradled the receiver.

"Please," almost a whisper. She moved closer. One hand raised, thumb smoothing his eyebrow, as he tried to back away from her. There was nowhere to go.  "Please, you have to leave." Ignoring his words, responding to his eyes, her own hand raised to cover his, drawing it away from his brow, toward her mouth. A sound came from him then, part moan, part protest, part acquiescence, bitten off between clenched teeth. She licked the tips of his fingers.

She remembered that taste.

Eyes still locked with his, she stepped forward, offering her mouth, offering her body. His other hand raised, curved around her waist, then clutched the back of her sweater and ripped her away from him. Unprepared for the sudden move, she found herself tumbling away, onto the floor at his feet. She couldn't stop the gasp as she hit the edge of the bedpost, a small whimper of pain at the impact, and he was there before she landed, cradling her head, one large hand covering the bruised patch on her hip.

He didn't want to hurt her, she knew that, knew he would protect her.  That's what he did, who he was. And now she knew he couldn't do as he had done before, either, couldn't do his damnable duty, couldn't turn away from her. Before he could unwrap his fingers from her hair she slid against him, mouth seeking his throat, nipping at the soft skin.

Oh, yes, she certainly remembered his taste. His warmth, his strength.  His resistance.

"No," as his hands slipped under her sweater, spanning her back. "Please," as she delved beneath the fastenings on his red serge coat, remembering the satin of his skin, the pucker of a nipple through soft thin cotton.  "Can't," as her skirt slipped back, baring her thighs, and her hand dipped, lowering his zipper. "Don't," as she caught him, held him, kneaded him, bared him. "God," as he shuddered against her, within her, hands tearing at the twisted silk of her skirt, the ripped edge of her panties.

She rolled, clamping against him, tightening around him, hands working, mouth working, body moving over his continuously. He was still hard, and she was still needy, as the remnants of their clothing were shoved away and she straddled him. His hands came up to cup her breasts, knowing her sensitivities, playing her as she rode him. Head thrown back, she took them both as far as she could, then lowered her face to his and took his mouth as he was taking her body. She felt it then, finally, gathering throughout her muscles, along her spine out to her fingertips, tightening her thighs and calves, curling her toes. As she convulsed around him, he thrust hard, twice, three times, burying his face in her neck, moaning in her ear.

"Please, god, no, please, oh, god, Ray!"

Shuddering into stillness, she held him. He shivered, arms tightening around her for a moment before drawing back. Inhaling the sharpness of his sweat, licking once more along his throat, she closed her mind to what she had heard and opened her eyes to him, allowing him to see the satiation, the satisfaction. Banking down the rage. The trepidation in his expression faded to relief, and she knew that he thought his betrayal unheard.

It was better that way. He wouldn't expect it until it was done, then. He was hers, after all. She was simply protecting what was hers. Or she would. As soon as possible.

The relief was giving way to something akin to shock, disbelief at his own actions. Time for a strategic withdrawal; she didn't want him thinking too much, saying too much, before she was ready. Before she had taken his other options from him completely, before he knew, as she did, that he was hers.

She leaned forward for one light kiss, then shifted her pelvis, watching as his eyes shut at the sensation of slipping from her. One more light kiss, then the edges of the sweater were pulled down, the skirt was smoothed, one hand trailed lightly down the mixture of their juices on his penis, and she was gone. She felt his eyes on her back all the way out the door. He made no attempt to follow.

At the base of the stairs, she finished tearing off her ripped panties and stuffed them in her pocket. She could smell him on them. She smiled into the darkness and slid into the shadows. Tomorrow, when she was finished, he would come with her. She wouldn't be left on her own again. She'd had enough of hell.

 

Kowalski wasn't quite sure why he'd parked outside the Consulate. It wasn't like much was gonna happen. Fraser'd gone down the front steps, met Deifenbacher, walked to the park, stared at a tree for a couple of hours while Deif had romped around scaring passing terriers, then walked back to the Consulate. Now … well, now, nothing. Nobody in or out.  Turnbull was all tucked up in the basement, and other than one lit room at the rear side in what was probably the attic there wasn't a fucking thing going on. He'd been on more boring stakeouts, but usually Fraser was there to bug him, so he stayed awake. Or fell asleep, usually leaning against Fraser. It was weird being on stakeout without the Canuck, and even weirder when the Canuck was the one being watched.

Two hours into the dullest stakeout on record, the curtain in the attic room moved. Ray sat up, staring through his binoculars at the small window, somewhat startled to see Fraser, leaning against the window, staring down at a squatty row of candles that were burning down to nubs on the sill. Had to be a fire hazard. He was half tempted to trot up the stairs and ask the Mountie what the hell he was doing with a bunch of candles in a room that, last he'd looked, still had electricity, or what, hadn't the Canadian government paid the utility bill? But the look on that pale face, not to mention the embarrassment of having to explain what he was doing camped out on the street in front of the Consulate, stopped him.

Fraser looked sick. Well, maybe not sick, more like he'd just gone ten rounds with the heavyweight champ and lost. Defeated, kinda. Lost, a little. Not like his Fraser. Nothing fazed Fraser. Except, now, it looked like something had. Big time. Sitting in the quiet, cold car, Ray stared up at Fraser, staring down at the candle. From somewhere on a lower floor, he heard a loud, wavering sound, and shivered, pulling his jacket closer around his ears. What the fuck was going on? First Fraser acts like he's got ants in his shorts, then he looks like he's lost his last friend but won't talk to anybody about it, and now Deif's making like, well, a wolf, and howling at the moon.

Ray glared at the window. Whole fucking world was going nuts, and he was the nutsest one in it.

The curtain fell, and he watched the shadow outline of Fraser's head bend.  One by one, the tiny flames went out. He sat and watched the dark window until dawn. Deif howled the whole goddamned night. Something was seriously out of whack.

 

No one noticed bag ladies. Especially in a busy precinct bustling with petty thieves, prostitutes, panhandlers, complainants filling out crime reports, parents looking for runaways, gang members parading colors and protesting that of course that wasn't their knife, never seen the frickin' thing, and what you mean it cut somebody? Musta been wearin' purple. In the midst of the suits and the uniforms and the computers and the protests and the rattle of a cop shop at full boil, Victoria Metcalfe crept in, slender form swathed in several layers of pungent cloth, hair dusty and bound in an overflowing headscarf. Muffler around her chin, scarf over her brow, just another disheveled, dirty piece of human flotsam floating through on the wave of humanity around her. No one noticed, as she dithered, as she wandered, as she finally settled in a far corner, out of sight, out of mind.

In perfect line of sight and hearing of Ray Vecchio's desk. At least according to the name plate on the desk top. After an hour, she was beginning to wonder. She hadn't seen Vecchio anywhere, just a scruffy, graceful greyhound of a man with big eyes and a sideways smirk, wearing a tight tee shirt and tighter jeans and spiky blond hair. She catalogued his appearance absently, wondering who he was and when Vecchio was going to show up and reclaim his desk.

After all, she couldn't kill someone she couldn't find.

The blond bent over to gather some scattered papers, and she nodded approvingly. Well shaped, great legs, better arms, interesting profile.  Amazing hind end, a little skinny compared to her tastes, which ran toward a bit more bulk, but not bad, not bad at all. She'd not kick him out of her bed, if it wasn't already well warmed by … before she could finish the thought, a black cop in a suit tossed a folder in front of the blond and laughed.

"There ya go, Ray, as good as it gets. Maybe you and big Red can make something out of nothing."

The blond snarled at him in a friendly way, and began to leaf through the file. Victoria sat frozen, her mind clicking over furiously. What was going on here? Surely, that couldn't be -- no, she knew Vecchio. This cute blond was in no way, shape or form Detective Ray Vecchio. As she was working at the problem, trying to figure out what odd practical joke was being played, a middle aged man in the far corner office stood in the doorway and bellowed, "VECCHIO!" The blond dropped the file, popped out of the chair and slouched, surprisingly quickly, in the direction of the bellow.

No. That was simply impossible.

She realized her jaw was hanging open slightly and closed it with an inaudible snap. Several moments later, the door to the office opened, and the blond came slouching back out, heading back to the desk and rooting through the files scattered there. Picking one up, he bent over the desk and began reading through it.

She stared around the bullpen, recognizing several faces from the shoot-out at the platform, up to and including the black man who had given the file to the blond and called him Ray. She dredged up the scene of the men gathered around Ben's sprawled form, etched like acid into her memory.  Yes, the middle aged man had been there as well.

So, they were pretending that this man was Vecchio. But Vecchio was nowhere to be found. For the first time since Ben had called the bastard's name as he climaxed in her, she began to relax. Vecchio was gone. She didn't care how, or why, it just was, and if the other cops were pretending this man was Vecchio, then he wasn't coming back any time soon. She wouldn't have to kill him after all. Perhaps someone else already had. A smile stretched her lips behind the edge of the muffler.

It froze as a familiar figure entered the room, deftly dodged the milling crowd, and headed directly for the side of Ray Vecchio's desk. The blond looked up from the file, saw his visitor, and smiled. The frozen smile began to disappear as she recognized the light in that angular face. It mutated into a snarl as she recognized the light that greeted it in her own Ben's features.

Not possible. This was simply not possible. Shaking the buzzing out of her ears, she forced herself to concentrate on what they were saying to one another. She tried her hardest to ignore all the things they weren't saying with their voices, but were shouting with their expressions.  Insecurity, want, frustration on the blond; hunger, muted by sadness and denial, on her Ben.

"C'mon, Fraser, this is me. You know you can tell me. Whatever it is, just tellin' somebody's gotta help."

"There is nothing wrong, Ray. Really. Thank you for your concern. I do, however, need to speak with Leftenant Welsh. There has been … an unexpected visitor whose appearance I must report."

Flat, stoic, dutiful. Determined. The son of a bitch. He was going to do it after all. He was going to turn her in. And he was in love, or at the very least lust, and knowing her Ben he had no doubt convinced himself it was love. With a stranger wearing Ray Vecchio's name.

The buzzing began again, drowning out the rest of the conversation, pulling her into herself. She barely registered the movement as the two men rose from their chairs and headed toward the office in the corner. Her eyes were unfocused, a field of red that was Ben's shoulders gradually growing until it washed out everything else around her, enveloped her mind and her heart, buried her under a rush of blood. When the pressure behind her eyes abated enough for her to be able to see again, she pushed herself off the bench, moving like the ancient woman she pretended to be, and made her way out to the street. Staring at the rush of cars, seeing only the red haze and hearing only words of duty and betrayal, she walked slowly away from the station.

She had things to do. A place to find, a person to follow, a gun to buy.  One last chance. One final attempt. She would get out of hell, or she and Ben would both die with her final attempt.

 

Kowalski didn't quite know what he'd expected, but a return of the Wicked Witch of the North hadn't been it. No fuckin' wonder Deif'd been howling at the moon. Had he known what was going down he'd have grabbed his gun and … then again, maybe not.

"- waiting for me in the upper room of the Consulate. I attempted to … I made an attempt to …"

Fraser was stumbling over his words, and a quick glance at the Lieutenant confirmed what Ray expected. They were both staring at the Canadian like he'd lost his mind, with their mouths hanging open. When Fraser finally, abruptly, stopped, face flushed a painful red, he wondered if he should say something. Anything. Like, I know what you were doing last night, and calling the cops wasn't it. Or, ya know, Deif thinks you're nuts, and I read the case files, and I gotta admit he's on the right track. Or, maybe, why the hell didn't you shoot her instead of fucking her? But he couldn't say any of those things. Couldn't turn the knife any deeper than Fraser was turning it himself. Before he could figure out a tactful way of admitting that he'd been spying on his friend, Fraser found his tongue again. Which was a damned good thing, 'cause Ray didn't have a frickin' idea what he would, or should, have said.

"I failed to report her presence. Physical intimacy ensued. She left.  She said she would return to the Consulate this evening. I have no knowledge of her current whereabouts. I was derelict in my duty."

All in one breath. If he hadn't been so freaked out, he would have applauded.  As it was, he looked at Lieutenant Welsh, Welsh looked back at him, Fraser stared at the wall, and nobody said anything. It was the longest thirty seconds of his life, before Welsh finally cleared his throat and spit something out.

"Well, Constable, if she, uhm, says she's gonna be at your place-" Ray winced, Welsh hesitated, Fraser stood like a lump of marble and Welsh caught himself, moving on. "-we'll just have to make sure we're there first. What time did she, er, approach you?"

"Strictly speaking, sir, I approached her-"

"What time, Constable?" A true Welsh bark. Ray found himself standing at attention and all he was doing was listening. His teeth were glued together from sheer nerves.

"Six thirty four p. m., sir." Typical Fraser precision. For an insane moment, Ray wondered if he'd timed the rest of the evening, too, but decided not to ask. Knowing Fraser, it would all be in the report. Every excruciating detail. He winced for his friend. This had to be so damned hard on him.

Welsh was already rising, staring at the clock. It was almost five.  "We'll have a team in place, then, to take her. You searched the building?" At Fraser's nod of agreement, Welsh continued. "She's off the premises, then, and will have to get in somehow. We'll surround the building, catch her on the way in." As he headed for the door, Fraser automatically fell into step behind him. Kowalski reached out and caught his sleeve.

"Uh, Fraser," at his voice, both men stopped and turned, one of Fraser's brows arching a question. "You, uh, don't need to be there, does he, sir? I think maybe it might be a good idea if he isn't there, you know, so she can't do something stupid like plant herself on the front step and ask for sanctuary and have Fraser have to tell her no, you know?" A memory flashed through his mind of himself, doing exactly that, and Fraser's ensuing efforts to prove him innocent of a murder for which he'd been set up. Darkened eyes met his, perfect understanding and more than a little appreciation for keeping him from having to make that choice warring with the strong sense of duty bred into the Mountie. Before Fraser could protest that he was perfectly capable of taking care of the matter, Welsh answered.

"Yeah, Ray, I think you're right on this one." Ray watched Fraser turn to the Lieutenant, start to protest, then stop at one upraised, beefy hand.  "No, Constable. You're sitting this one out. Last time we tried to take this hellcat down you ended up with a bullet in you, nearly dead, and I had paperwork up to my eyeballs explaining away what coulda easily become an international incident. You stay with Vecchio, here."

Fraser's shoulders tensed, and his head bowed. Ray gritted his teeth at the need to insert the other cop's name in here, especially when dragging up the shooting. Just pile the shit on one bucketful after another, he thought grimly, but he kept his jaw locked. Fraser nodded, a tiny movement that didn't raise his head at all, and Welsh clapped him briefly on the shoulder before turning and heading out of the office. Ray stared at his friend for what felt like forever before venturing his own small shoulder pat.

"C'mon, Fraser. Let 'em handle it. You hungry?" Not waiting for the denial he could read in the other man's face, he kept babbling, herding Fraser out in front of him the whole time. "'Course you're not, not right now, but I'll bet you haven't been eating and you're gonna be. So let's go to my place, watch a little something on the tube, maybe throw a tape in the VCR, get some pizza or piroshkis or somethin' later on, you know, when you do feel hungry."

It was a stretch, but he managed to get Fraser clear out of the station, into his car, back to his apartment, planted on the couch with a glass of milk in one hand and a plate of his landlady's oatmeal cookies in the other, without once bringing up the bitch who was at the root of the mess.  Of course, by then, his voice was dead, but hey, that's what friends were for, to be a little white noise when the world was screaming in a buddy's ear. At least that's what Ray told himself. He wasn't willing to admit, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, that he was half afraid of what Fraser would say if he ever managed to get any words out.

 

The consulate was a beautiful building. It was a beautiful day. The shrubbery around the grounds made for beautiful coverage. Turnbull was a beautiful example of utter oblivion standing serenely on the stately steps.  The trap was a beautiful set-up, everyone in place, no sign of a rumble, no unexpected hitches, nobody's watch alarm or beeper going off from behind a bush, no nosy dogs looking for a fire hydrant and finding a pants leg.  Everything was just beautiful.

Except for the fact that the beauty they were all waiting for was nowhere in sight.

Welsh squinted into the greenery, spat out another damned bug before it got wedged in his teeth, and mentally pinpointed his men. Eleven plainclothesmen, deployed in such a way that there was no path except from the sky that wasn't covered by at least two. Huey and Dewey at point, Markus and Heath to the west, Sanders and Dukakis to the south, Li and Andress to the east, Neill and Byrnes to the north, and himself directly across from the back entrance Big Red had been sure she'd used the previous night. A gnat couldn't fart within a hundred yards of the Consulate without somebody hearing it.

Only problem was, the gnats were the only things moving.

For the eightieth time in the last hour, at least, he glanced down at his watch. Seven forty eight. Broad was late. While he could, if he felt misogynistic, claim it was on account of her gender, the Victoria Metcalfe he'd discovered via accounts rendered the last time she'd visited his fair city had one hell of a lot more in common with a pit bull than a woman. And pit bulls were seldom late for appointments. Especially when they were in heat.

The minute hand ticked over, and he grimaced. Glaring back at the frustratingly quiet doorway, he chewed and spat another bug. Hell of a way to spend a summer evening.

 

The cookies were undoubtedly excellent. The milk was chilled, and as decent as any American milk could be, while being distressingly thin by Canadian standards. The Chicago Bulls were beating an expansion team into flinders on the court, so it was obviously a satisfactory ballgame.  Unfortunately, the food tasted like sawdust, the game utterly failed to keep his attention, and his head was beginning to ache with all the conflicting thoughts flying about in it.

Fraser realized that something was different in his surroundings, and forced his focus away from his confusion long enough to pinpoint the change. Ah. Ray had finally stopped talking. He was well aware that his friend was unaccountably nervous, but couldn't think of a logical reason why it should be so. Giving up on making sense of either the game or his thoughts, he turned to his partner.

"Are you all right, Ray?"

Kowalski started, nearly jumped from his seat. That was odd. Fraser hadn't realized he'd been so intent on the game.

Or perhaps not.

There was something in the way Ray was carefully not looking at him.

"Me? All right? Sure! I mean, why not? I'm not the one with the psycho on his tail." Kowalski's voice choked off suddenly, and he made a small pained noise, as if he had bitten his tongue. Fraser cocked his head to one side and studied the other man intently. Long, thin hands waved through the air as if trying to erase his words. Fraser broke into the strangled, choppy apology.

"You appear to be uneasy. Why?" After all, as he'd so bluntly put it, before catching himself, _he_ wasn't the target of a convicted murderess with anything from vengeance to sex on her mind.

Ray took a deep breath, threw one extremely quick glance at Fraser, and stared hard at the screen. "I was at the Consulate last night."

The words were so soft Fraser wasn't certain for a moment that he'd actually heard them. When he realized he had, he sat upright, staring in disbelief at Kowalski. "Why?" It came out more harshly than he intended, but he didn't mitigate it with any explanation. Why had the detective taken it into his head to follow him?

"Somethin' wasn't right. Somethin' was bothering you. Had to see if I could help. Couldn't get you to talk. Figured I'd try 'n' figure it out and … and … give you a hand or somethin'." The staccato sentences rapped at him, sharp taps, each word biting at the wall of numbness he'd managed to build around himself. This, he had not expected. He hadn't known Ray cared enough to seek him out that way.

"Of course I do!" Fraser found himself staring into Ray's upset eyes, mobile mouth pulled into a deep frown. He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. Swallowing, he tried to force some semblance of order on his tumbled thoughts.

"Why?" was all he could find to ask.

Ray shrugged irritably. "You're my friend." Another quick glance sideways through his lashes, another one-shouldered shrug. "I care what happens to ya."

The wall broke. Knowing he would berate himself for this later, knowing it was undoubtedly not what Kowalski had intended, Fraser found himself speaking.  Words fell out, and he didn't have a solitary idea how to stop them. "I care about you, too, Ray. You're my friend. I don't have many friends.  I don't make them easily, can't seem to find a way to keep them when I do. I appreciate you trying to help, trying to make me feel better." He was leaning forward now, one hand resting on the cushion between their thighs.  He could feel the warmth of Ray's body through the thin denim, so close to his fingertips.

"Not your fault, Fraser."

"How can it not be?" Oh, yes, he was well into the flow now. He couldn't seem to make his tongue lay still now that it had remembered how to move.  "I never know what I should say, never know what I should do, can never find a way to tell someone that I care about them until it's too late. I tried not to go with Victoria, I did my duty, the first time, and she paid for it. The second time, I nearly destroyed my best friend, nearly got myself killed, turned my back on all I am to go with her. But it was too late. I was trying to recapture something that I had already given to someone else." Ray flinched, and Fraser instinctively moved closer, the hand between them finding a place on the lean thigh next to his. "But I could never tell him, either. It wouldn't have done any good -- it was all wrong, he could never have given me what I needed, I could never replace what he would have had to give up. I can't do that again, Ray. I have to tell you. Before she manages to destroy it again, before I miss another chance, before my courage fails again. I care about you, Ray. I've fallen in love with you." There. He'd said it. Now he just had to sit back and watch his world fall apart, the same way it did every time he said those words to anyone. Fulfilling his fears with expected haste, Kowalski drew back as if Fraser was contagious.

"I'm not Vecchio! Goddamnit, I may have his name and his life and his badge and his fucking desk, but I'm not taking his leftovers!"

That wasn't quite what he'd been expecting. Looking past the surface disgust to the pain in Ray's face, Fraser took a deep breath. It felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. Perhaps he hadn't been completely out of his mind to say it, after all. "I don't expect you to be Ray Vecchio, Ray. I don't _want_ you to be. I want you to be yourself. It's you, Ray Kowalski, who I need. I know you, Ray. I know who you are. I know exactly who you are, and I love you." He shook his head, not knowing how to explain it any more clearly. "I'm not good at loving anyone, Ray. I've not had it happen that many times, and the first two times were … nightmares. But it's there, and I'm scared, because I have this feeling that I'm going to make another mistake, drive you away, and that will be the end of it." He clenched his fingers in the tensed muscles under his hand, holding on for dear life. "I'm going down for the third time, here, and if I go down alone, this time, I'll drown."

Ray was looking at him as if he really had lost his wits. But the disgust had disappeared, at least, and along with the pain, there was the slightest hint of hope. "You're weird, you know." Fraser nodded. "I'm a lot of things, but lovable isn't one of them." He shook his head, disagreeing, but unable to say anything more. The well had run dry, and his mind was going numb. "You're crazy, saying you love me."

"I do." A promise, and a statement of fact. The promise didn't completely sway Kowalski, but the clear belief seemed to catch his attention. After all, a Mountie didn't go back on his word And Fraser was very serious indeed. He brought his free hand around, barely brushing it against Ray's jaw. Ray didn't retreat, as he'd half expected, but leaned slightly into the touch. Moving slowly, waiting for him to shy away, Fraser leaned all the way in and touched his mouth lightly to the soft skin below Ray's ear.

Ray froze.

Fraser froze in response. Then he heard it. The click of a safety being flicked off a handgun.

He pulled back even more slowly than he had leant in, gradually turning to face their unexpected visitor. Victoria stood in the doorway, both hands holding her weapon steady, aimed directly at him. He swallowed and stayed right where he was. If anyone was going to get shot, it wasn't going to be Ray.

"You have a choice, Ben." Her voice was calm, no hint of strain, but there was an edge of madness to it. He remained silent, waiting to hear what she would have to say, waiting for an opening, willing Ray to keep his mouth closed. "You can walk out of here with me. You'll leave him, and he will live. Or you can stay with him. And I will kill both of you."

She would do it, he knew. She'd killed lovers before. His mind spun furiously, trying to find a way to get them out of the situation alive and take her into custody without further jeopardizing his partner.  Before he could think of anything to say, the phone rang. The shrill noise startled all three of them, but the barrel of the gun never wavered. He closed his eyes, thankful at least that it hadn't made her finger jerk on the trigger.

"Don't be a moron, lady," Ray suddenly blurted. Fraser stared at him, pushing down hard with his body, shushing him as discreetly as possible.  Ray was having none of it. "You got a whole station full of cops on your ass. They all know you're in the area. You're not going anywhere. Drop the gun and back off!"

A bullet buried itself in the back of the sofa a scant inch from Ray's left ear. A second bullet shattered the body of the telephone, quieting the ringing. In the aftermath of the small explosion, the apartment was very quiet. Fraser could feel every muscle in his body tense, and time began to slow. He knew, as surely as he knew the beat of his own heart, that she would never leave Ray alive. And Fraser would never allow her to hurt him.  The best chance, the only chance, would be to overpower and disarm her.  Hoping to distract her, he turned, keeping himself in front of Ray as much as possible.

"Please, Victoria, think about this. If you leave now, you will escape.  It is the only chance you have. If you stay here they'll catch you, and you'll go back to prison, for Jolly's murder, for the diamonds, for attempting to frame Detective Vecchio. Go, now, please, while you can."  She stared at him, shaking her head slowly.

"And you, Ben?" So much need in that voice. So like a little girl. Her eyes were shining. She wasn't crying, and she wouldn't, but if she could, at that point she would have been.

"I can't go with you. You know that. You wouldn't want me to, not really.  If you love me at all, you wouldn't want what I would be if I could leave with you."

"Fucking word games!" Ray tried to shoulder past Fraser on the couch, but he blocked the smaller man, not letting Victoria get a clear shot at him.  The frustrated growl behind his shoulder didn't deter him from protecting Kowalski. "You're a wanted criminal, lady! He goes with you, he becomes wanted too! That what you want? A shoot-on-sight issued for the both of you? Go up in fucking flames like fucking Bonnie and Clyde? You're out of your goddamned mind!"

"Ray! Be quiet!" "Shut up, you son of a bitch." Their words tumbled over one another, and Fraser fell silent as she continued, her voice low and venomous. "What do you know? Nothing. You know nothing. He's mine. He was willing to give up everything -- _everything_ \-- even that bastard Vecchio for me. You're nothing but a poor substitute for the real thing.  He'll leave you, too. He belongs to me."

"No." One quiet word, cutting through her angry tirade, silencing her.  Behind him, Ray had frozen at her words, and Fraser found himself speaking once again with no filter between his heart and his tongue. "No, Victoria.  Ray isn't a substitute for anyone. I won't leave him. I can't. You were an obsession-" and how freeing it was to admit that, to her, to himself.  "-He's real. There's a difference between loving someone and wanting to own someone. You don't need me, and you certainly don't love me. Just as I don't love you."

She stared at him in disbelief, lips drawing back over her teeth in a snarl. "Are you trying to say you're in love with … this?"

The barrel of the gun wagged slightly above and to the left of Fraser's shoulder, and he said, softly, clearly, "Yes," as he took advantage of the momentary distraction and threw himself at her. Behind him he could hear Ray cursing under his breath and scrabbling for his weapon, but he was occupied with wrestling Victoria for possession of her gun. Desperation and anger made her strong, and she was twisting like an eel, nearly escaping him more than once. Ray was calling for him to "move, damnit, drop, get the fuck out of the way!", but all his attention was trained on keeping her finger from the trigger. A bullet through the floor, ceiling or wall could kill an innocent bystander, a knee to his groin could incapacitate him long enough for her to kill both of them, and he couldn't get a firm enough grip on her to bring her down.

The side of her forearm slammed into his throat, and he choked, gasping for breath. He could feel her move, knew she was sighting over his shoulder, using him as a body shield while she shot his partner. He moaned, lurched desperately against her in a last ditch attempt to spoil her aim. There was an explosion, not as loud as he expected, and her body jerked in his arms. Abruptly, she was deadweight. He froze, staring at the woman who had been fighting him so fiercely a moment before. Her eyes were open, but the light was dying in them, and he was aware of something wet and viscous slipping over his fingers.

He sagged with her to the floor, only then realizing that her head was canted oddly, her hair pressed down, no, there was a hole there, part of her skull was gone, and the fluid on his hands … he forced his eyes from his hand to the doorway. Lieutenant Welsh stood there, backed by several bodies crowded out in the hall. Behind him, he felt warmth. A hand came over his, around his back, where it held her waist under the fall of her hair. Fingers tightened around his. His stomach lurched, and he stared at Welsh's pale face, peripherally aware of another hand reaching around to gently close her eyes. Welsh's mouth was moving, and he could feel air by his neck, knew Ray must be saying something, but he couldn't hear a word.  All he felt were the fingers, around his, and the warmth along his back, anchoring him.

Welsh finally came forward into the room, and there was movement as the detectives poured in behind him. Huey pulled a cell phone from his jacket and dialed, speaking urgently in it, as Li and Byrnes reached forward to take Victoria's body off of Fraser. Ray pulled gently from behind, and Fraser followed the movement instinctively, not willing to give up the warmth. He felt so cold. Strange, because he was used to the cold, and it never got cold enough in Chicago to make him truly feel it. But he was cold now, and he needed that warmth. The fingers curled around his again, and he let himself be drawn away from the corpse, turning at last away from the remnants of his obsession and curling into Ray's side, under the warmth of his arm. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall onto Ray's chest and waited for the world to come back into focus, ignoring the noise around him, concentrating on the warmth surrounding him.

 

Eight o'clock came and went, and the itch at the back of Welsh's neck couldn't be blamed on a mosquito. Something was wrong. Radically wrong. He knew the Mountie, knew he didn't lie, knew that even when appearances were against him, they were better off believing Benton Fraser than whatever their own eyes told them. Breaking cover, he brought the handset to his mouth.

"Welsh to all units. Leave your positions -- the stake-out is off. Repeat, the stake-out is off." Digging his cell phone out of his coat pocket and flipping it open, he punched the first speed button. Francesca picked up on the second ring. Breaking through her canned spiel, he barked, "Connect me to Kowalski."

"Is there an emergency? What's going on, Lieutenant? Is Ray okay? Is _Fraser_ okay??" He could hear her fingers tapping on keys in the background, so he bit down his instinctive urge to tell her to shut up and get on it, and settled for a simple, "Yes." That would cover everything. To his mild surprise, it actually worked, and the next noise he heard in his ear was the ringing of the call going through.

And ringing. And ringing. No answer, then a sudden disconnection and dead air. Not even a dial tone.

Not good. With a muttered "Shit!" he clamped the phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. He was already swinging into his car as he went back to the walkie talkie and started issuing orders. Less than ten minutes later, lights going but sirens silent, they squealed to a halt in front of Kowalski's apartment building. Not waiting for his men to catch up, Welsh took the stairs on the fly, damning too many deli lunches for the pain in his side as he ran up the last flight.

From the hall he could hear screaming, two voices, one male, one female, and the sounds of a struggle in progress. "Police! Open up!" bellowed out in the same instant his foot impacted the door frame, perfect aim, just to the side and above the lock, snapping it like balsa wood. It flew open to show a scene from a nightmare. A slender woman with long, dark hair twisted in Constable Fraser's grip, both their hands fighting for a pistol in her right hand. Her left clawed at Fraser's face, and she was twisting like a wildcat, biting, clawing and kneeing, screaming obscenities and telling everyone who would listen that her Ben was never going to leave her. Kowalski was screaming back, dancing from side to side, trying to get a clear shot around Fraser's bulk, unable to sight her with all the movement.

Then she got lucky, and cracked Fraser a hard one across the windpipe, nearly taking him down. He grabbed at his throat with one hand, gagging, and she jerked her hand away from him, using his shoulder as a balance, aiming right at Kowalski. Welsh didn't remember yelling a warning, although, later, Tom assured him he had, and the incident board did clear him. All he could see was that hand, pulling the trigger, and Kowalski, unable to shoot without taking out the Mountie. Welsh's hand came up, his gun aimed for the middle of her back. He thought a quick prayer that the bullet would stay in the bitch, wouldn't go right through and take out the Constable, then he squeezed the trigger.

He fired. Fraser stumbled. The woman went sideways, not a lot, just a little, and the bullet that should have caught her in the heart took off the side of her head.

"Sonuvabitch." It hadn't been what he'd aimed at. But he'd take it.

He forced himself to walk forward, and saw Kowalski move as he did. His detective took charge, quietly herding Fraser away from the corpse, tugging on him, then two of his men came around him and helped shift the dead weight. He reached for his phone, again, and hit a different speed button. He couldn't help thinking, as he stared at the remains splattered across the carpet, that it had been a hell of a night, and it was going to get worse before it got better.

It didn't take long for the ME to get to the scene, and there was the standard procedure to cover, pictures and statements. Through it all, he kept a close eye on Fraser and Kowalski. Big Red was holding Kowalski's hand, like a little lost kid, with a man's grip that wasn't letting go. Stepping carefully around a technician, he stopped by Ray's side.

"He okay?" So many questions, in a couple short words. He knew, of course, that the answer was no. Hell, the guy had just had his ex-lover's head blown off while she was in his arms, and he still had the blood and brain matter splashed over his coat to prove it. He was white as a ghost, shaking like a leaf, and holding on to Kowalski like he was never going to let go. But he had to ask, and he accepted Kowalski's nod as the answer meant, not given. No, he wasn't all right, and he wouldn't be all right for awhile, but he'd get past it, eventually, and it would be as all right as it ever got.

"Report on my desk tomorrow," he added, more to have something to say than because Ray needed any reminders. Kowalski nodded, then put his other arm around Fraser's shoulders and hugged him tightly to his side. Welsh nodded. He knew the feeling.

Then he turned and walked out the door.

There was more here than what he had seen. More than what he would read in the report, more even than the painfully honest Constable would ever tell. But he didn't need to hear it. He knew it. And eventually, when everything settled down and they got their heads back together, maybe, if they were lucky, they'd talk it out, and they'd know it too. Vecchio would never know what he had missed. From where Welsh was sitting, it was better that way.

 

Bad day in bedrock, Ray grumbled to himself, then fished out the white-out one more time. One of these days he'd remember to check the damned report before he printed it out. Not today. His brain felt like fried squid.

Slowly wending his way into the Lieutenant's office, he dropped the report into the inbox and stared at his boss. Welsh looked up from the folder in front of him, and grimaced up at the detective.

"You look like shit, Vecchio. Go home."

Ray didn't argue. He just nodded, turned on his heel, snagged his coat on the way out the door and headed for the Consulate. He and Fraser had to talk.

Fraser didn't seem to agree.

He was very busy with a box and a half of what looked like forms in quadruplicate, sorting them this way and that into neat little piles that were precisely placed at right angles to the edge of the desk exactly a quarter inch, or whatever the hell the metric equivalent was, from one another. Ray shook his head. He knew denial when he saw it.

"C'mon, Fraser. Time to get back on the horse."

Fraser gave him a perfect 'I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about' look. Kowalski jerked his chin to the side, pointing toward the door.

"Back to my place." Fraser froze, eyes widening, face paling. "You have to, ya know. Otherwise it's never going to go away."

"Let it rest, Ray." The normally calm voice was very strained. He hated seeing the pinched look on that face, but Ray bit his tongue against the urge to give in. This was important. For once, he and Fraser were actually on the same wavelength, and he had a strong feeling if they didn't get it thrashed out now, it never would be. Neither one of them was very good at talking, not when it came to something important. And it didn't get any more important than this.

"Can't do that, Fraser. Ya see, you're not alone in this." Blue eyes swung up from the desk top and latched onto his. He nodded, never breaking eye contact. "Goes both ways, buddy. And we gotta talk about it."

"Not here," agreed Fraser.

"No. My place." He watched the long throat tense, then swallow, knowing by the bruising left from the bitch's cross check that it must've hurt. He softened his voice, allowing a little pleading to creep in. "Please."

Fraser gave the precise piles of paperwork one last glance, reached for his jacket and his hat, and followed Ray out of the room.

It was a short, silent drive to Kowalski's apartment. When he unlocked the door and led the way in, Fraser froze at the threshold for a second, staring at the carpet. The clean-up crew had done a decent job, and Ray'd spent the rest of the night scrubbing at it, after putting Fraser to bed in the back room. There wasn't any stain left, not that could be seen against the dark fiber of the carpet, and Fraser eventually edged into the room. Ray stood back, not pushing, letting him take his time. He didn't want to scare him off, and if he gave into his impulse and grabbed the guy up in a hug and never let go, the Mountie would probably head for the high country and never be seen again. So he wrapped his arms around his own torso, leaned against the wall of the kitchen, and watched.

After what felt like forever, Fraser got past the place where Victoria had died, and sat gingerly down on the couch. He was tense as a bowstring. Kowalski hadn't been sure, that morning when he dropped the other man off at the consulate, if he'd ever get him back into his place. He'd known it had to be soon, or it would be never. He didn't want to think what Fraser would do given some time and distance. Probably shut up tight as a drum and pretend none of it had ever happened.

As if Ray could. As if he could erase the words echoing in his head. Love. The guy he'd been trying to find a way to trip into bed for months had said he loved him. Then psychobitch from hell had shown up and blown the works right out of the water.

Not this time.

He sidled over to the couch, settling lightly next to Fraser. When the other man made no move to bolt, he scooted a little closer.

"Did you mean what you said?" Fraser turned his head to look at him, opened his mouth to reply, and Ray broke in before he could say anything. He couldn't take the chance the answer might be no. "I mean about that third time going under. About drowning. About it being me you wanted, not anybody else." He was moving progressively closer to Fraser with each word, until he was right beside him. Fraser hadn't moved, didn't even look like he was breathing. Ray figured as long as he didn't pass out, this was a good sign. "'Cause there's another way of looking at it, you know. I mean, yeah, you could look at it like you're going under for the last time, but there's also the third time's a charm thing going, too, and I think that applies a heckuva lot more than the drowning thing." Running out of words, he just stared over at his friend. Please, please, please get it, he chanted in his mind. Please look at this as a good thing, 'cause it may just be the best damned thing that has ever happened to me in my life and I don't want to fuck it up. Please. Please say something.

Thankfully before his control broke and he started babbling again, Fraser finally opened his mouth.

"She was a dream and I'm not very good at dreams. I tend to mistake them for reality."

Ray closed his eyes. _Not_ what he'd wanted to hear. He'd wanted 'Ray, I love you, and I want you to fuck me into the middle of next week and keep doing it the rest of our natural lives.' _Not_ 'she was the best thing that ever happened to me.'

"She was the worst thing that could have happened to me." His eyes popped open. Fraser was staring off into the distance, and from the look on his face, didn't like what he was seeing. "Dad had always put duty first. Mom died, and he just went away. I saw him very little. He didn't seem to notice that we missed him. He didn't know Mom, wasn't there to see her, every day. Put her second, and me, nowhere at all it seemed." His voice softened. "I did that too, the first time. Put her in prison, put duty first, love second. Except that it wasn't love. It was a dream of something that I'd never had, and wanted to have with all my might. Her return was a second chance, but it was a second chance at a nightmare. She was nothing like what I thought she was, and she wanted things of me that I couldn't give without destroying myself."

His eyes sharpened, regained focus, and settled on Ray. Kowalski felt the weight of them as if they were tearing right through to the heart of him, seeing everything. If it wasn't for the warmth there, he'd've been tempted to run himself. As it was, he couldn't have moved if his life had depended on it.

"I tried to shape her to fit the empty place in my soul. She didn't fit, she nearly tore me apart, and I helped her. Then I thought, perhaps, that Ray would fit that hole, but he never quite fit." Ray started, thinking for a moment that Fraser meant him, then relaxed, realizing that it was Vecchio, this time. "He filled some of the cracks, but he could never be the one I needed, the one who would complete me." Fraser's eyes fell to his hands, clenched together now in his lap. His voice was becoming strangled, hard to hear. Ray leaned closer, not wanting to miss any of this. It was too damned important.

"She took the light away. She was dark, and cold, and she made me dark and cold. Ray was a light, but he was a light outside myself, one I could warm myself at but never take into myself, never make part of me. You …" Fraser's voice broke completely then, and Ray couldn't stand it any more. He reached over and covered the whitened knuckles with one hand.

"S'okay, Fraser, I understand." Narrowed dark eyes stared at him, trying to say more, unable to find any words left to say. Ray nodded. "We fit."

Fraser nodded in return. A little light was showing in those darkened eyes, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Not yet. Words wouldn't do it. Victoria'd been good at words. Vecchio had been good with words. Hell, Fraser Senior'd been some kind of writer, and really good with words. But none of them had touched him. Not like this.

Reaching one hand over and tugging Fraser's chin around to face him, Kowalski angled his head and kissed him. For a heartbeat, Fraser resisted, lips stubbornly tight. Ray nipped at him. Enough talking. They could talk it to death and never say everything that had to be said. For now, it had to be show, not tell.

Ray put everything he had into his mouth, need and determination, desire and frustration, pure unadulterated lust only being tempered by love when Fraser finally gave in and opened his mouth. In a jolt of flash fire, the hesitancy was gone, and they devoured one another. The tenderness could come later, with the explanations and the examinations and the poking at it all with a sharp stick. Right now, right then, there was only fire, burning away the last of the ice.

Red serge hit the floor, tee shirt and leather jacket following closely, then jeans were wriggled out of and boots were yanked off two sets of feet. Undershirts, shorts, socks made a trail from the living room to the bedroom, over the hidden stain in the carpet, covering it with the present, taking away the sting of the past. While it wasn't the first time for either man, it was the first time in a long time for both, and pressure and sublimation created urgency enough that Kowalski was coming before Fraser ever tipped him onto the bed. He reached out blindly, touching everywhere his hands could grab, anchoring himself as the world disappeared into vertigo and flashing colors behind his eyes.

The rough slide of a tongue across his belly brought him back to the present, and he looked down to see Fraser lapping up the spilled semen there. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck, but Fraser was still hard as a rock, and he reached down, drawing his partner up beside him. Holding the face he'd fantasized about for months close to his own, he licked and kissed all over the high cheekbones, straight nose, fine brows, long lashes. All the while, he worked Fraser's erection with his other hand, sliding, pulling, rubbing, using every trick he'd ever used on himself to drive Fraser over the edge. When it did, he swooped to cover the open mouth, swallowing Fraser's scream as he came all over them both. Bringing his dripping hand up to his mouth, curious, he stuck his fingers in his mouth and sucked the cream off them. Not bad. Different. Sweeter than he'd expected. He could get addicted to the stuff. Had a feeling he was going to do his damnedest to get it as often as he possibly could.

Nuzzling the side of his face into Fraser's shoulder, he lazily cleaned off the rest of his hand and fell asleep, wrapped as far around his partner as he could get. His last coherent thought he had before dropping off was that they'd need a crowbar to get 'em apart. It was okay. He never wanted to move. The thought made him grin, and he was still smiling when he started to snore.

 

Ben stared into the darkness, holding Ray Kowalski, feeling warm from the inside, a novel experience for him. He was a creature of the north, and at home in the cold. But he was encircled by fire now, and he had never felt more at ease. His arms tightened, and Ray snuffled in his ear, breath rasping as he snored lightly into the side of Ben's neck. He was real, solid, heavy … warm. It wasn't a dream, for no matter how lucid dreams could be, they were never this tangible. For the first time in his life, he was holding reality. He had awakened from the nightmare. It was a wonder to wake up and find that he had finally come home.

_finis_

Overheard in a closet:

"Fraser? Is it just me or is it crowded in here?"

Shaft of light, growled grumbles from knee level, firm click.

"Better?"

"You're too far away."

"I can remedy that."

Snuffle. Growl. Grumble.

 


End file.
